The Lady Killer
by loveisforlovelies
Summary: AU Faberry - Someone is slicing up women in San Francisco and a group of friends want to catch the killer. None more eager than Rachel Berry, but when things get personal - way too personal - Where will her loyalty lie? And will the killer ever be stopped? Starring: Faberry, Puck, Brittana, Kurt, Tina & other minor cameos. RATED M: violence, character death, consensual sex, etc


**THE LADY KILLER **

The waning crescent is invisible in the night sky with the heavy fog turning any moonlight into an unwelcomed pitch of pure darkness. The air is cold enough to burn the woman's throat as she breathes harshly in her haste. Her shift at the diner extended far beyond her desired endpoint and now she's wondering why she didn't just say "No" to her boss. Certainly, she didn't want to work another eight hours, after her horribly long twelve-hour shift, but when Mr. Figgins cornered her on her way out, asking to cover a call-out closer, she sighed and retied her apron around her waist. Now, she's roaming the city well past midnight hating herself for having no back-bone. With a huff, she glances at her wrist watch and finds it useless when she can barely even see in front of her. She shakes her head at her unfortunate predicament and guesses that she's been walking for ten minutes and should be home in another ten – five, if she doubles her pace. Cursing to herself, she wishes she had telephoned one of her roommates before she locked up the diner for the night; but knew better than to call them this late, not because they'd be sound-asleep, but because they'd be taking advantage of her absence by having obnoxiously loud sex. She knows that the couple doesn't get much time to themselves between work and her being there at the apartment when they get home. She always tries to give them privacy and not be bothersome or in the way, but can only do so much because she needs somewhere to sleep. She could always go down the hall and sleep at their friends' apartment, but she doesn't want to intrude on their crazy night cleansing rituals, either. She shrugs in the dark, a bit saddened by her living situation, but she shouldn't complain. At least she has friends and a place to go – even if the place is in the scary part of town.

If one could see in this blackened night, they could see the tired, yet nervous way the woman walked – shoulders hunched, legs moving quickly. They could see the way the waitress's legs strained with each step, knowing her feet must be aching after her exhausting work day. They could see tendrils of her long black hair fall from the messy, loose bun on top her head; and they could see that she was too careless to fix it.

The waitress's mind drifts to the recent news stories about the spike in San Francisco's crime-rate, specifically around Orange Alley. There were several murders these past few months, but most stories involved non-violent muggings. Even so, that didn't stop her from calling up her friend, Noah – The SFPD Sheriff. She's always quick to worry and be terrified about these things and always took extra precautions, like avoid walking alone at night. Damn her passive personality. Anyway, Noah informed her that muggers only want valuables, so she should remind herself to quickly offer up her purse on first demand – No protests, no screaming, no reason to get herself killed. He also advised to carry pepper spray to ward off attackers, but she used it all last week, on a night much like this one, when she sprayed aimlessly into the dark, thinking someone was following her; and never got around to getting some more. So, she crosses her shaking arms over her chest, in some weak, desperate attempt to feel secure, and instead feels her heart pound from beneath her left breast, after having spooked herself with paranoia. Inside her mind, fears run rampant as the air suddenly gets chillier and the surrounding blackness begins to feel like a stranglehold. Her breaths are heavier and her footsteps are more urgent and if someone were following her, unnoticed, they could see that the woman was close to giving herself a panic attack. So, once she hears a set of deliberate footsteps trailing behind her, her breath hitches in her throat and she scurries off into the blinding fog. Scared and careless is a poor combination and it causes the woman to misjudge her footing and slip on the curb. Her already tired body falls heavily on the street and her left elbow bangs against the curb, as her right high heel snaps, along with her ankle.

"OW! Ow! O-" She cries out, but quickly covers her mouth as she hears the once determined footsteps, come to a halt about ten feet away from her fall. "Who- who…Who's there?" The waitress barely whispers, as her eyes swipe across the negative shades in front of her. There's no response to her question, nor is there any visible sign of someone standing before her; but she can feel someone watching, observing, and growing excited in the dark. "Look, I- I—I re- really don't have much m-m-m-money, but you can ta-ta-take it- take everything I have, plea- Please just don't hurt me. I'll be q- quiet. I sw-sw-swear I will." The woman lifts her upper body off the sidewalk and whimpers at the pain shooting up her left arm. She uses her right hand to dig into her left pocket on her waitress dress and pulls out today's tips. She aimlessly tosses the bills and loose change on the sidewalk. "Th-Tha-That's everything. Now, now, please just…" Her sentence trails off into silence when she doesn't hear the sound of footsteps or someone collecting the thrown money from off the ground. The woman sits in the quiet of the night and glances all around her, knowing she can't see anything, anyway; but she doesn't sense anyone there, anymore, either. "He-Hello?" She whispers, slightly calmer than a moment ago. After another ten seconds of silence, she breathes a sigh of relief. It's quiet here, she assumes she must be at the end of Valencia Street, where all the shops are abandoned and there's not a single soul around during the day, let alone at night. Hearing nothing but the wispy wind and her own breath, she is content in believing that she only imagined the whole paranoid incident. "Tina, ol' girl…You're going to give yourself a heart attack one of these days," she mumbles to herself.

Gathering her emotions and the little strength she has left, she takes off her useless heels and slowly hoists herself up from the street. She tries to brush off the dirt she can't see, but curses when her left elbow aches and her right foot proves too tender to walk on. She groans at her miserable situation, pathetically hops back onto the sidewalk and begins to drag herself toward home. The woman doesn't even bother trying to find her tip money; it's far too dark and honestly she just wants to shower and limp into bed. After her long day, she knows that she deserves a nice long rest; and if someone were still following her, they'd think the poor woman indeed deserved a very long, and rather endless, sleep.

The waitress's right arm swings lazily at her side, as she carries her heels by the straps. She can hear them knock together with each step; and with her renewed sense of sanity, she doesn't bother listening to her unknown surroundings. If someone were following her, hope would have deluded her already tired mind and she'd neglect to acknowledge the sound of practiced footsteps and the low chuckle, slightly masked by the clonking of her heels. Hope is a powerful anesthetic – Hope makes someone careless and stupid. If someone were following her, they'd see that the broken waitress was full of it. They'd see how each limp carried a bit more pep than the last. They'd see the pep was caused by the dimmest of corner lamps at the end of the street, marking the beginning of Orange Alley's residential area. They'd see the narrow alley approaching much sooner than the waitress's hopeful safe ground. If someone were following her, now would be the moment to –

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"Local police have not released the identity of the victim – a twenty-four year old female - to the public, but has stated that they have contacted those closest to her. Sheriff Noah Puckerman, has also released a warning statement, saying, 'All San Francisco citizens should take precautions when being out past daylight. Citizens are advised to avoid being out past midnight and should avoid being out alone. The police department is also asking everyone to report any suspicious behavior to the proper authorities and to please not approach any suspicious characters. As long as everyone takes these precautions, these horrible, brutal murders will no longer occur.' Adding to that, I just received notice that no leads or suspects are in question for these heinous acts of violence, but the San Francisco PD will surely find the culprit and bring safety to our streets, once again…This is Emma Pillsbury and you are watching Channel Two News."

"That's it?!" Shrieks an angry Latina, as she bangs her fists against the top of the back of the couch, startling its two occupants. "That's utter bullsh-"

"Santana, language-"

"Don't fucking lecture me about language, Berry! Not right now! Tina is dead, damn it! She got killed! Murdered! Her throat slit wide open and all they do is release some sorry ass excuse of a statement!"

"You're making Brittany cry, Santana!" Rachel yells back and hurries from her seat to comfort the saddened blonde. "It's okay, Brittany. It's okay."

"In what delusional world of rainbows and unicorns do you live in, Berry? Because there's nothing "_okay_" about any of this!"

"Santana calm down." The well-dressed Kurt Hummel replies. He doesn't rise from his spot on the couch, nor does he look at any of the three women in the apartment. He stares at the television screen as the news follows up the story of their friend's death with a story about how celery and lettuce prices will go up and how it will affect the local economy. He shakes his perfectly groomed head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "We're all upset and hurting, but being angry and making each other cry is not the way to deal with it."

"How do we _deal_ then, huh?!" Santana questions with a glare burning into the back of Kurt's head. "Those stupid cops don't even know what they're doing between sitting on their asses and making hourly trips to the donut shop! And don't tell me they don't because I see those fuckers going in and out of Hudson's Donuts, all day long; while I work my ass off at the studio, with Britts!"

"They eat all the donut holes and don't leave any for us," Brittany cries into Rachel's shoulder. Santana points at her crying girlfriend with an "I-told-you!" expression.

"Whatever, Santana. My point is we should listen to the statements and not go out at night, alone and report any suspicious behavior."

"Oh, yeah! That'll help a whole lot! Let's just stay in our apartments every night and everything will be just okey-fucking-dokey!" the Latina snaps. "Let's just spend the rest of our nights living in fear because some asshole is out there killing people!"

"Women."

"And let's just act like we don't want to find that ass-"

"Women." Rachel repeats.

"What?" The three others ask, confused.

Rachel steps to the side of the couch, with a thoughtful look on her face. "You said _people_, but it's only women."

"No. That asshole killed that guy at the train station, too," refutes Santana.

"And what about the paper boy they found three blocks away?" Kurt adds in, looking at his best friend and roommate, as she shakes her head adamantly.

"No, no! Those are just other unfortunate murders. It's not the same person."

"How do you know?"

"Because the paper boy was shot; and the one who…murdered Tina…used a knife," she says with sadness and a mournful glance at the sniffling Brittany.

"Helllllo! The train station guy was stabbed, Sherlock!"

"Yes, exactly!" Rachel says a bit excitedly. "He was stabbed, but all the women were sliced in some way…_Not stabbed_."

"So what are you saying?" Kurt questions when no one else speaks up; not even the previously fuming Santana.

Rachel looks at all of her friends' faces with wide, convinced eyes. "We're looking for a lady killer."

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Noah Puckerman is sitting in his office, looking over files, and tossing two donut holes in his mouth, when Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Kurt Hummel, and Rachel Berry barge in on him.

"Wmmhoa!" He mumbles around the puffy pastries in his mouth, clearly not happy with the intrusion.

"Whoa is right, Suckerman," Santana barks and makes herself comfortable, by plopping down on the corner of his desk. "How dare you release some pitiful half-ass statement! Tina deserves more than that; she's our friend – your friend! Don't try and treat her like those other people, you don't even know, that got killed!"

The three people standing off to the side drop their heads when Noah looks at them for some help. _Typical - _he thinks. They're all cowards when it comes to Santana; but he's still disappointed when Rachel doesn't even look at him. Truth be told, Noah is always a tad disappointed when the short brunette doesn't look at him. Not that he can blame her, because regardless of how many times he has apologized for confessing his feelings for her and making things completely awkward between them, and regardless of how many times she said it was fine and not to worry about it, he still feels like it isn't fine and he does worry about it. He misses hanging out with her and the rest of them, but he's embarrassed and he feels like they all know about that night he spilled his guts and he feels like they all judge him for it, even Rachel. Since then, they've tried hanging out and sometimes it's like nothing happened and sometimes it's like he confessed all over again. Lately, he's just thrown himself into his work and for the most part it's helped him get past the whole ordeal, and it's been a while since he's even seen Rachel, and now he sort of wishes it stayed that way. He looks away from the brown bangs shielding her face and sighs, reaching for the bag of donut holes, but only grasps air when Santana snatches the treats and holds them out to Brittany. "The fuck, San?" He says, getting annoyed.

"Here, babe" she says to the tall blonde and when she reaches for the bag, Santana pulls her in for a hug. "I'm sorry for making you cry even more about Tina. I'm sad, too; I just have a different way of showing it." The blonde nods and kisses her girlfriend for apologizing, then steps back and tosses a donut hole in her smiling mouth. "Now, back to you, asshole." Santana continues, staring down the disgruntled sheriff. "What the hell are you going to do about finding Tina's killer?"

Noah glares back and rolls his eyes when the angry woman doesn't blink once. "Don't come to my office and shit on me, alright," he replies, fully irritated by this rude disturbance. "I've been working my ass off for months, trying to find this prick. I got assholes breathing down my goddamn neck expecting answers and evidence and suspects – better yet, someone behind bars for this shit! If you care so much about getting this killer off our streets why haven't you – OR ANY OF YOU- even bothered to ask me about the case or the murders? Why haven't any of you called me to ask where I've been and why you haven't seen me around?" he eyes all of his "so-called" friends. "Huh?!" When no one makes a peep, he shakes his head, dismayed. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I've been here reading reports and out in the streets looking for clues, while you guys sit on your asses, not giving two shits until it happens to someone you know! And the second I saw…Her…_Our _Tina dead in that fucking alley…I haven't slept and it's been three days! So, get off my back and the hell out of my office!" Santana is the first to move toward the door. The others just stand ashamed and guilty. "ALL OF YOU!" He shouts, pointing in the way they came, but doesn't lift his eyes to see them leave.

Brittany jogs ahead of Kurt and Rachel, in order to catch-up with Santana, as she storms out of the police department. Rachel glances over at Kurt and see's her best friend dabbing at his eyes with the tiny handkerchief he keeps in the breast pocket of all his dress coats. The brunette woman frowns at the sight and reaches up to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but before it can rest on his designer clothes the young man mumbles, "I'm going to be late for my facial," and hurries off through the double doors. In the few seconds that the doors stay open, Rachel can hear Santana's sobs from outside. The sound of the hardened Latina's cries have always been unpleasant to Rachel's ears, so she decides to wait in the lobby for a few minutes, hoping that Brittany will take her emotional girlfriend home.

As the small woman sits, she feels absolutely terrible. She knows that Noah is right, they all do; that's why they all left his office so upset. Rachel's face reddens upon thinking of how self-absorbed they've all been. Brittany and Santana have been working at the dance studio every day, hoping some talent scout will walk by and see them through the studio windows; and she and Kurt have been walking to and from work, together, at the Orpheum. Then there was Tina, who never complained about not having a work buddy to walk home with, who never whined about not having someone special or a best friend, who never threw a pity party when she felt like a third or fifth wheel whenever she hung out with her friends who were closer to each other than they were to her.

Not to mention, she feels like a giant ass for being so awkward around Noah. It was about three months ago when they all went out to a club for a night of fun. It was a rare occasion, after all, that they were all off work that evening and they decided to spend it together, dancing and being carefree. Unfortunately, Santana and Brittany got drunk and Tina ended up taking a cab home, with them, leaving Noah, Kurt and Rachel to have fun. Kurt eventually met a good-looking guy and they shimmied their way to the dance floor, never to be seen for the rest of the night. It was fine with Noah and Rachel, they were friends and she rather appreciated his company. They laughed and talked about work and she remembers venting to him about how she'll never get lead in any of the plays she auditions for because no one likes her prominent nose and the fact that she's new to the business and has to wait years to get her big break. She remembers going into detail about how Streisand proved that noses don't represent talent and even if they did it's no wonder hers is so enormous…And that's when it happened - the moment that changed their friendship forever. She remembers him leaning towards her with puckered lips and she remembers being frozen, unable to move when she wanted to. Don't misunderstand, she knows Noah is a handsome man and he's kind and really very sweet, but she didn't feel romantically for him – He was more like her big, protective brother. So, when his lips touch hers, she doesn't kiss back, but doesn't have the heart to push him away; she just lets it happen. When he finally pulls away, before she can even react he blurts out a whirlwind of a confession, going a hundred words a minute. Rachel was impressed with his ability to speak so quickly, but she was too in shock to comment. She merely took his "I want to be with you. You're everything I want in a woman. You're amazing. Be with me, please" outburst for what it was and tried not to burst into tears and say, "I don't want to ruin our friendship!"…and failed.

Tears roll down Rachel's big brown eyes, as she stares down at her hands, completely hating herself for not being a better friend to Noah and to poor, poor, dead Tina. She sighs heavily and can only imagine how Santana and Brittany must feel, being they actually lived with the girl and couldn't even care enough to wonder where she was until almost two days later when someone finds her in the alley, just down the street from the apartments they all live in. The brunette lets out a wheeze of a cough and wipes her face, just as Noah exits his office, looking as if he was wiping tears from his own face, a moment ago, as well. He changed out of his sheriff uniform and looks surprised when he sees Rachel quickly standing up from one of the lobby chairs, but he juts out his chin and continues his walk to the double doors, leading outside. When he passes by her, she reaches out and slides her arm through his. Neither of them speaks, nor do they look at each other, knowing that they will embarrass the other by looking at their red, puffy eyes. They silently walk out of the building and Rachel is relieved to see the bawling Santana is nowhere in sight; and Noah is relieved that the same crazy Latina hasn't vandalized his police car.

"I'm sorry," they say in unison and quickly look at each other and let out small laughs, before bumping each other's elbows and sides until they separate and hop into the Sheriff's ride.

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"So, this is where you go when you're off duty?" asks a slightly dissatisfied Rachel, as she wipes down the barstool with a napkin then carefully places a clean one on it before smoothing out her skirt and sitting. Despite having already lived in the Orange Alley area for one year, the brunette has yet to shed her diva persona – even if she can't really afford it since she's only been able to land understudy roles in local plays at the Orpheum, alongside Kurt. That's why they have credit cards, they say. Meanwhile, her and her friends live in a very humble apartment complex with barely decent maintenance. Brittany, Santana, and the recently dead Tina, have adjusted to their new surroundings and have downgraded their tastes to live more conveniently. However, Rachel and Kurt continue to fill their own small apartment with high-end decorations and items that have gotten them robbed twice. Still, she and Kurt do all their shopping and activities outside of the neighborhood and they are most certainly careful to avoid places like this "dirty bar," at all costs – Even if it is only a thirty minute walk from their apartment.

Noah looks puzzled by the diva's napkin routine and nonchalantly glances around the place, hoping no one saw his friend's crazy – somewhat adorable – antics. "Nah, this is my first time coming here. I just thought we'd go somewhere close to your place, so I can drive you home."

"While that is quite generous and thoughtful of you, Noah…This isn't really my kind of shindig," the brunette replies, nervously peering at the silhouettes of the folks hiding in the corners of the dark bar.

"Yeah, well, if you're done with your sanitary inspection, I don't want anyone to think I'm a nutcase, alright," he says half jokingly and half seriously.

Rachel's face doesn't hide the fact that she's offended by his statement, but she doesn't fuss about it, either. She knows he's only teasing and it's his way of flirting with her. It's harmless, at least when he does it, she used to do little things like slap or pinch his arm when he makes fun, but that stopped that _revealing_ night. The last thing she wants to do is lead him on…

So, she merely looks away and at the liquor bottles behind the bar, squinting to read the labels. "This place could use some proper lighting," she says a bit snotty. The sheriff scoffs and slides the peanut bowl between them as an offering. He doesn't bother to turn and look at the way she cutely scrunches up her face in disgust, "No, thank you! Do you have any idea how much bacteria is on those peanuts?!"

He laughs and keeps shoveling them into his mouth, "Too bad because…I don't care, I'm hungry."

"Then we should've gone to an early dinner, instead…Like I suggested, Noah," Rachel exasperates. She much rather be in pleasant place when she brings up her whole "Lady Killer" theory – not in some shady bar with shady characters lurking about. She sighs and goes to lean forward but hesitates to touch her hands or elbows on the bar. She eventually decides against any part of her body touching any surface that hasn't been wiped clean, so she keeps her hands on her lap and glances at the man next to her. "I know this cute little café about five minutes away from the Orpheum. They have the best salads! I mean really, Noah when was the last time you had a meal that didn't consist of coffee and donut-holes? You should really take better care of yourself; we're not as young as we used to be and as we age our bodies process food at a much slower rate, causing indigestion, heartburn, and making us susceptible to various health-related problems, such as: high-cholesterol, high-blood pressure, weight-gain, weakened immune systems, strokes, heart-attacks; and with all the stress of your work, Noah, I worry about you someti-"

"Oh my, God! Alright, alright!" Noah nearly yells, catching the attention of the bartender, who moves to come over. Noah quickly waves him off and gets up from his stool. He tries to hide the big smile on his face from finding out that she thinks about him – even worries, like he does about her; but he knows better than to comment and make a fool of himself, again, or even worse make her cry by revealing too much. Furthermore, he knows he ought to start getting over her and fast, before things get worse between them. So, he suppresses his high hopes and cracks another joke, "I guess, being in mourning hasn't dulled your ability to yap your mouth and give lectures about eating right," he says, poking fun; but Rachel is far too pleased to be leaving this place that she doesn't care in the slightest.

Rachel walks ahead of Noah, eager to get back into the light so she can inspect her clothing for stains and God knows what else. Meanwhile, Noah is subtly checking her out, hoping she doesn't catch him in the process, as she leads the way. She doesn't because she's twitching with excitement, unable to not keep her theory from him, any longer; so without turning around to speak directly to him she says, "So, the timing might seem insensitive, but I think the person who killed Tina is the same one who killed the other three women, over these last few months. They all have been sliced in some way and the other murders that have been happening just don't fit. I think this person is killing only women and possibly luring them in with _his_ charm. Not to say that Tina was lured or anything. She's much too smart for that, but on the other hand she was very passive and gullible so maybe he saw her walking alone and took the easy opportunity… So, in other words, I'm saying that we're looking for a lady kil..."

Her words get caught in her throat and she stops walking when the door gets pulled open by someone entering. The sun outside highlights their face, as they take one more look at the street and twist the lit end of their cigarette against the wall of the bar, before entering it. The person is a beautiful woman, with green-gold eyes, plump lips, and short, shaggy blonde hair that frames and accentuates her wonderfully strong bone-structure. She's dressed in tight blue jeans, a white tank top, and form-fitting leather jacket. Normally, Rachel would scold such a rugged type, one too rude to use an ashtray, but she's too busy sliding her eyes down the woman's collarbone, to her breasts, to her lean midsection, and down to her strong legs and black heels. In all honesty, the woman looks tough, but Rachel can't help but be wildly attracted to her; and she doesn't know why that scares her, so much. The woman barely has one foot inside when Rachel freezes mid-step, causing Noah to bump into her from behind.

"Lady whaa- _Hollll…ly shit_…" mutters Noah, when he follows his friend's gaze to the gorgeous woman in front of them. "_Whoa…_" he says just above a whisper and gulps hard when the blonde turns her head and eyes him for a brief second. She's hot he thinks and feels slightly guilty for finding another woman attractive, even though he's single and Rachel doesn't even like him like that; but he figures if he's going to get over her he might as well do it by getting to know this beauty. He immediately dons his high-school persona and gives the blonde a smug head nod of approval, only to be looked at like she wants to kick his ass. He drops his mask and tries to look away from her judgmental glare, but her heavy use of black eyeliner draws him into the smoldering green in her eyes.

Rachel isn't doing any better – she's worse actually. She hasn't moved once since the woman walked in and she's pretty sure she stopped breathing, however a whimper is heard when the blonde's eyes shift downward and land on Rachel, but from who that whimper escaped is unknown. It's not until the blonde speaks does anyone else move an inch.

"Allow me," she offers, stepping back and pushing open the door for what she thinks is an oddly paired couple. She glances over the short woman's designer skirt and blouse and at the man's plain white shirt and faded jeans. The huge difference in clothing tastes is not what bothers the blonde; what does is the fact that the boyfriend doesn't bother opening the door for his girlfriend because he's too busy gawking at her. Typically, that doesn't bother her either, but for some reason she desperately wants someone to open doors for this small woman in front of her, so she doesn't hesitate to do so herself – All the while, fighting the overwhelming desire to stare back at the brunette. If she wasn't being extra careful, due to the police car parked up the street, she'd probably act out that urge and some of the others that are building up in her, as she locks eyes with this guy's girlfriend.

"Oh yeah, thanks. C'mon, Rachel." Noah mumbles, again, clearly apologetic and embarrassed by the perverted way he was staring at the blonde. He moves quickly, taking Rachel's hand with him.

The mysterious woman isn't blind to the way Rachel seems to be more enthralled with her than her boyfriend is. So, when Noah drags Rachel past her, she lightly skims her slightly colder fingertips along the length of the brunette's warm bare arm. The barely-there touch forces a gasp and a deep red blush from the smaller woman, as she snaps her head back to look at the blonde, who smirks smugly at her and winks before letting the door close shut.

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End file.
